


Where The Muse Takes You

by ygrainette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hell Fic, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair is an artist, and that's what makes him the best there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Muse Takes You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a straight-up Alastair-POV Hell-fic, because I have a slightly unreasonable love for the demons in SPN. Also featues my pet theory/headcanon that Azazel was originally an angel who was on Lucifer's side and eventually became some form of demon.
> 
> Beta'd by the valiant [at-heart-a-gentleman.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman)  
> I love feedback dearly. [I tumble.](http://capricorn-child.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Content Warning: general gore/description of torture. I tried not to go overboard on the gore, but if you are extremely sensitive about eyes or mouths, proceed with caution.

Alastair's a religious man.

He's a religious man and he's an artist, and this is what makes him the best there is.

It's not about revenge, or sadism, or any one of those petty power-trips that drive so many of the lesser of his kind. That philosophy is something that's been forgotten in Hell, these days. Too many black-eyed young upstarts, shrieking and laughing their way through souls like maddened dogs, boiling over with rage and hate, and thinking that makes them _demons_. Fools, all of them.

Those are _human_ motivations, and in the final analysis, they are weak indeed. Lucifer did not intend His children to be a mere perversion of humanity, but something more. Better. Purer.

Refinement, that's the thing. The razor's edge, the tendril of power to ignite the blood in the vein, the soft word whispered in the ear – not the axe of bone Alastair held once, so long ago. The knowledge that torture is its own reward.

That's what's been lost, the standard that Azazel let slip through his fingers. The Fury, they called him when he reigned, and an apt name it was indeed, for he was a forest fire, a force of nature. It was nothing but the wrath of the Fall that drove that one, and that's all very well if you are Azazel, who called Lucifer _brother_ before He became the Father. From a fallen angel, rage can be mighty. From an ordinary demon, it's simply pathetic.

Oh, that daughter of his was as good a pupil as Alastair has ever sliced open and seared into shape, but in the main, Azazel set a bad example. No refinement.

Alastair was made by Lilith, who was made by the Father Himself. It was the teeth and nails and tongue of Lucifer's First that tore away the sinew of his soul, bathed him in acid and venom, purged him of all human ideas of love and loathing and left him a demon. A true demon. A white-eyed child of Hell, strong and proud enough to wait twenty thousand years to see his Father freed again.

That unbroken line of creation – of _artistry_ – well, it gives one a sense of appreciation for the process.

To the lesser demons, those who to his regret make up the vast majority of the Legion, the flames and the waters of the Pit are still agony. Suffering. And they hate it as they hate the souls they rend, as they hate each other.

For Alastair, the Pit is beauty. It is beauty and joy and light, and when he works, when he _paints_ , he peels back eyelids and illusions and weaknesses until his souls see it too. And then they are ready to take his hand, take up the knife, take their place. It's a delight to watch, every time: the metamorphosis of some mewling soul, broken against the rack, from vermin-human into demon.

There are some humans who are born for Hell. All Alastair does is set them free.

He thinks this when he first lays eyes on Dean Winchester. He slides hooks under the skin, tucks them in tight at shoulder and wrist and the arch of the ankle, strokes a razor down through the throat, watches the blood and bile curdle as the righteous man tries to scream for his brother. So much beneath the skin of this one: anger, yes, bloodlust, to be sure, but deeper than that run thick veins of loyalty, compassion, love.

And yes, this he can work with. From this, he can forge a masterpiece.

Alastair has been the creator of some fine, fine demons in his time. His was the hand that made the ones they call the Seven Sins, the hand to which Azazel entrusted his own children. Already he knows this man will become his greatest, knows it with the certainty of any artist when the muse takes them and they cannot take a step wrong even if they tried.

He reaches down, runs the tip of a finger along the spasming edge of Dean Winchester's heart, twists. Smiles down into green eyes, rolling with pain, leaking vitreous humour alongside tears. Even with blood burbling up through his opened gullet, he's beautiful.

That's right, that's how it should be, how a _demon_ should be. Made in the image of the Father, a beautiful face and a dark, pure soul.

This one will be Alastair's perfect son – the righteous man to set Lucifer free, a demon fit to stand with Alastair and Lilith at His side.

Alastair presses fingers to Dean Winchester's lips, gentle, then lets his hand shift, nails becoming serrated talons that pull at the corner of the gasping mouth. Waits until those green eyes flicker open again – trying not to appear weak, afraid, how sweet. He smiles broadly.

"Welcome home, my boy."


End file.
